


The Golden Lord

by Nomanono



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: #nsfwyurioweek, Alternate Universe, Intercrural Sex, Lord & Slave, Lord Altin, Lord Leroy, M/M, pseudo-historical, slave yuri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2018-12-30 22:34:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12118644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nomanono/pseuds/Nomanono
Summary: Lord Leroy's slave is everything Otabek wants, if only he can win him.





	1. The Hive of Halyet

**Author's Note:**

> This is a mess of semi-historical references that I'm certain are utterly inaccurate. Feel free to call me out on them. I can't promise I can change it all, but hey, let's learn stuff. 
> 
> This won't be very many chapters, but I wanted to post something today for #nsfwyurioweek. The rating will probably go up to Explicit but for now, rated Mature because the NSFW part is nudity. 
> 
> Inspired by Raikovart's [lovely images of slave Yuri](https://raikovart.tumblr.com/post/165120280930/new-stuff-about-my-otayuri-slave-au-hope-you-like), though I don't think I did their idea justice!

The city of Halyet sat on the Mediterranean coast, wrapping around a blue-green bay frequented by trade ships migrating between Cairo and Istanbul. Its narrow, twisting streets buzzed with merchants and buyers, bankers and hired hands. The honey of Halyet’s thriving hive was its goods, spices and tea and silks from the east, ivory and wood from the south, and the craft of metal and stonework from the north. Halyet overflowed with economic opportunity, all waiting to be harvested. 

“Honey is just liquid gold, isn’t that right, my good friend?” 

Jean-Jacques, Lord of Leroy, watched his servant drizzle honey over the fresh cut fruits before him. He was entertaining a new lord, the youngest son of the Altin line, Otabek.

“Are you suggesting an investment?”

Otabek had just come of signing age, and his thumb was freshly cut to prove it. The Altin name was renowned in the North, past Istanbul and up into the western Orient. Here, creeping along the crest of Africa, it was a rare mention at best. Otabek’s father had sent him south, a slight in retribution for Otabek’s refusal to marry, to establish a southern presence for Altin in Halyet. 

“Merely a survey of the opportunity,” Jean-Jacques waved his hand. Leroy had set up in Halyet two generations ago, and Jean-Jacques had already inherited ownership over a hefty percentage of the ivory and sugar trade. Like Altin, however, they were stronger in the north. Ostensibly, Altin’s establishment in Halyet would further the city’s legitimacy and desirability for Mediterranean traders, boosting Leroy’s income, but Otabek’s father had long taught him never to accept superficial explanations. 

Still. Otabek had been in Halyet for little more than a day. There was little to gain from dismissing Leroy’s hospitality out of hand.

“Speaking of surveys,” Otabek said. “You promised a tour of the markets.”

“Ah,” Jean-Jacques grinned. “So. I hope your purse is heavy. You have an estate to fill.” 

“So,” Otabek agreed, and he popped a honeyed grape between his teeth, its juice cool down his throat.

— 

“Dress too finely and you’re sure to be swindled,” Jean-Jacques said, explaining his attire as a servant helped him into his saddle. 

“Your horse’s breeding is fine as any silk,” Otabek mused, “unless it is simply a game you play with the merchants.”

“So,” Jean-Jacques tilted his chin at the possibility, then clucked his horse forward. Otabek’s mare was hearty and squat, meant for the journey down from Qazaqstan; he had yet to purchase a finer beast for public display. “Let us wager if they see through your disguise, then. Two gold coins?”

“You’re far too fond of wagers, my friend.”

—

With Jean-Jacques came a small entourage: two thick-armed security slaves, Jean-Jacques’ accountant, and a handful of servants to see to their purchases. 

There were many to make. 

“The harbor markets veer pedestrian; they cater to the sailors and travelers too child-eyed to know better,” Jean-Jacques said. “The best in Halyet are reserved for the king’s market.”

“You named the market?” Otabek teased, for the Leroy line was one of kings, and Jean-Jacques, if he desired, could surely lie claim to distant lands. 

“So,” Jean-Jacques laughed. 

In the King’s market, sheep’s wool and cotton were replaced with silk and cashmere, the faint dyes of local blossoms gone in favor of carmine and purpura. Here was the one place in the city where horses were common, their riders elegant in their jeweled saddles. Jean-Jacques drew gestures of familiarity: waves and nods and several of the owners pausing to jest with him.

“Let us start with your entourage,” Jean-Jacques said to Otabek. “My friend,” he called to one of the merchants, “a chance at your stock?” 

“For my Lord Leroy?” The merchant flicked his wrist and from the hanging fabric of his doorway came a parade of men, each wearing their muscles like suits of armor. 

“You’ll need security for your estate,” Jean-Jacques told Otabek. “Or no other purchases are safe.”

Otabek hopped down from his saddle, approaching the line of men. The tail of his white clock wisped behind him. His father had taught him the evaluation of slaves, and he moved easily amongst them. Jean-Jacques had not lied about the quality here. Otabek did not betray the ones he wanted, and the negotiation went quickly. 

Word traveled through Halyet’s hive that Otabek was populating his estate, and the merchants spoke to him, not Jean-Jacques, as they continued. They brought out slaves and made them stand at attention, hoping to catch this new Lord’s eye, but Otabek was discriminate if nothing else. He purchased an estate mistress to handle domestic chores and a small bevy of young women to assist her, a cook to direct kitchen work. Of the men he picked two trained slaves to manage his horses and whatever fowl passed for common food here, and then Jean-Jacques raised his brow and gestured to a cluster of storefronts bearing red silk.

“Only a poor lord sleeps on cold sheets,” Jean-Jacques said.

“So,” Otabek agreed.

Harems were common to the south and east, less familiar in Otabek and Jean-Jacques’ native north. Jean-Jacques had expressed no small amount of enthusiasm in adopting the local custom.

“Sara has been my main supply,” Jean-Jacques said, dismounting his horse and handing off the reins. Otabek followed him, leaving the rest of their entourage behind as they stepped through the crimson curtain. The woman inside greeted Jean-Jacques with twin kisses. She held herself like an older woman, a child wearing the dignified stature of her mother. Much like Jean-Jacques, and himself, she must have newly inherited her family’s business.

Two slaves came forward, offering water no doubt spiced with liquor to ease their purses open. 

“Please, be comfortable,” Sara insisted. “Tell me; have you any preferences, my Lord Altin?” 

One of the slaves gestured Otabek to the pillowed lounge, sat beside him and spoke in sultry tones encouraging him to drink. These slaves were barely dressed, and what little they wore was designed to flutter with every breeze, offering glimpses and teases to whet their guests’ appetites. 

“Show me what people here like,” Otabek said. It was a safe way to avoid divulging anything she might use to take advantage of him.

“As you wish, my Lord.” Sara lifted her hand, fingers snapping, and a line of slaves came forward, completely bare.

Five girls and two boys, most of the local bloodline: darker skin with frizzy hair, light eyes sprinkled amongst them. Two were lighter, and one was black as a new moon with tightly woven braids. 

“Their cuffs showcase their skills,” Sara said. “Twine have basic training. Leathers at least a year, and metal cuffs are courtesan level. You’ll have no shame having them on your arm in the city. All of them are ready to be bed however you desire and can keep themselves clean and tidy.”

Jean-Jacques leaned back, enjoying the ministrations of the slave who had served him. She moved into his lap and he kissed her, taking what he desired while Otabek waved his own attending slave away.

“What else do you have?” Otabek asked. 

Sara let slip her frustration - only a flicker of her brow - and snapped her fingers again. The first round disappeared, replaced by another of unfortunately similar caliber.

Otabek inspected them, then shook his head. 

“May I see your pens?”

“My Lord, I don’t —” 

“I have seen many pens before; their state is not reflective of the quality of your merchandise, I’m certain,” Otabek soothed.

“So,” Sara acknowledged, her bristles receding. “This way.” 

— 

Slave pens were never pretty. These were tightly stacked and smelled of sweat and flesh. There must have been sixty slaves all bunked together or in the process of being trained. As they walked the aisle they passed open rooms with trainers bedding the slaves or bringing down their whips for failure. 

As they were about to return, Otabek paused at the sound of a familiar tongue. 

“Let go of me! LET GO!” A voice screamed, but not in any of the languages familiar to this area of the world. Otabek doubted anyone, even Jean-Jacques, knew Otabek’s second tongue. 

“That voice,” Otabek said. “Where is it coming from?” 

“Our latest shipment just arrived,” Sara said. “Lord Leroy special-ordered a few slaves from our central office in Venezia.” 

“Ahhh,” Jean-Jacques said. “Sara, my friend, let us see them? I want to know what I have to look forward to.”

Jean-Jacques had had three glasses of the spiced drink, had his arm tight around the slave’s waist. Sara shook her head at his indulgence. 

“I was hoping to prepare them for presentation first, my Lord,” Sara said. “They are unkempt.” 

“They are already purchased,” Jean-Jacques purred. 

Sara sighed. “So.” 

— 

He was a ragged mess, a wreck of a boy with a screaming temper and the deep marks on his wrist that spoke to his defiance. 

But beneath that? 

You could cover a pedigreed horse in mud and it would not change its value. 

The trainer was hauling the boy towards a pen with the rest of the slaves: these fairer skinned, their hair light browns, but this one slave, this one, had hair like gold. 

“I might have to pay extra for training for that one,” Jean-Jacques said, watching as the boy broke away from the handler again. Just as the handler was about to bring the whip down, Otabek held up his hand. 

“Stop,” Otabek said, and the handler did, though it earned him a kick from the slave. 

Otabek turned to Jean-Jacques: “Look at you, you’ve addled yourself so deeply we can no longer make a wager.”

Jean-Jacques’s eyes widened: “ _You_ wish to wager, dear friend?” 

“I could train this slave,” Otabek said. 

Jean-Jacques laughed: “I’ve seen eyes like that before! That one is _wild_. You could no more train a zebra.” 

Otabek smirked: “Take my wager then. How long do you think it would take me?” 

Jean-Jacques shook his head: “To basic level? You could not do it in a month. I wager the boy’s initiation on it.” 

Otabek curled his finger against the bottom of his chin.

“I see you are not so addled.” Otabek stared at the slave, who had backed into the far corner, watching their exchange without comprehending. “I wager you, Jean-Jacques, that I can train him in a week.” 

Jean-Jacques shook his head: “You will lose.”

“If I lose, I will pay for him.”

“And if you win?” 

“I keep him.”


	2. A Sugar-Sweet Scowl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, special thanks to Raikovart over on Tumblr for the visual inspiration <3

The boy’s hands were bound and roped to Otabek’s saddle horn by request. To sooth poor Sara, who had put up with much and earned nothing, Otabek purchased the night-dark girl. When they were out of earshot, he offered her to the house mistress as an extra hand. 

Meanwhile, the boy screamed. 

“You will NEVER keep me! I escaped before and I will escape again! LET ME GO! Let me go you ugly pig’s ass! You slit-eyed snake!” 

Otabek pretended he did not understand, but when the boy’s volume rose, Otabek turned and held up a strip of cloth. He raised his eyebrow at the boy, _I will gag you if I must_ , and the slave just growled and spat. 

“Do it! You think it will make a difference!? That I can scream right through it?!” 

He kept yelling, only moving forward when Otabek’s horse - who could not have cared less about the nuisance - pulled his heels out of the earth. 

Otabek waited another minute, and when the yelling did not stop he dismounted his horse, taking his crop with him. 

The other slaves he’d purchased watched. 

Jean-Jacques watched. 

The boy’s ferocity had lessened when Otabek dismounted, and now he stuttered at the calm power the lord exuded. Out of instinct, the boy lifted his hands to shield his head, but his resistance remained. 

“Do it!” The boy cried. “Do your worst! You only make me stronger!” 

But Otabek did not bring out his crop. He waited for the boy to stop and lower his hands, curious. Otabek held up the cloth again, the crop in his other, and lifted his brow. 

_Your choice_.

The boy turned his head to the side, refusing to choose, and Otabek had to respect the fight in the golden-haired boy. He brought the cloth to the slave’s mouth, heard the boy whisper “I hate you” just before he was gagged. 

Otabek lifted the boy’s chin, inspecting him. He had beautiful teeth. The boy wrenched his head away, backed as far from Otabek as the rope would allow. 

Otabek didn’t follow him. He climbed into his saddle. 

“You’re a soft master, Altin,” Jean-Jacques said. 

“Gold is soft,” Otabek responded. “Flexible enough to adapt to new situations.” 

— 

Otabek’s estate stood on a hill just outside Halyet’s city-center, overlooking the jeweled sea. Rust-colored roofs capped sandy beige buildings, two to three stories tall, closer to the Northern style than what was popular in either Alexandria or Istanbul — some shell of the crusades, perhaps. It had been abandoned for nearly a decade before the Altin family purchased it and sent an advance of servants to prepare it for the new lord. 

In addition to that initial crew, Otabek had brought a small entourage with him on his journey. These workers welcomed the new slaves and put them to task, arranging the orders of their lord’s new home.

Otabek took the boy himself. 

“Your papers say you were called Yuri,” Otabek said. 

The boy looked up at his name.

“Yuri,” Otabek repeated, and the boy tugged on the rope Otabek held and screamed into his gag. 

Otabek’s crop still hung at his belt. He fluttered his robe, ensuring Yuri saw it, and then took off the gag. 

“Curse your name and all your sons!” Yuri shouted as soon as he was free, trying again to yank the rope from Otabek’s hands. 

Otabek didn’t move. Neither did the rope. 

Yuri’s voice was starting to go, his throat rasping from his constant yells. Between that and the surprise of Otabek’s strength, he was stunned into a temporary silence.

Otabek waited until there was no tension in the rope, until Yuri had stopped trying to move him, and then he gestured towards the bath. 

“Come.”

Yuri shook his head, the meaning of the word clear enough even if he didn’t grasp the language.

“I will never obey you!” Yuri said. “Take your slit-eyes and suck on horse shit!”

Otabek gazed at the boy, Yuri’s outrage like a fiery beast. He glanced around the room, but none of the other servants were in earshot.

“You are dirty, smelly, and tired,” Otabek said, switching to the boy’s tongue. “You need a bath.”

Yuri choked: “You understand me?!”

Otabek watched the emotions cross over Yuri’s face. It was doubtful anyone had understood the boy for months. Doubtful he had had anyone to talk to. Anyone to hear his pain. 

You didn’t have teeth like that if you were born a slave. 

“Surprising, for a slit-eye. So?” Otabek said, his voice never losing its calm.

The boy realized all that he’d said, all that Otabek had heard, and his throat bobbed with a fearful swallow. The strength seeped out of his shoulders, and for a second he no longer looked like a wild animal, but a frightened child. He held his bound wrists towards the lord. “Help me.”

— 

Otabek brought the slave into the bath, called in another two to wash him. Yuri was silent as he was cleaned, staring into the water. Otabek said nothing, and when it was clear the slave was calm, at least for the moment, he left for his study.

It was another hour before one of the domestics told him Yuri was ready. 

As he pulled back the curtain to his room the air fled his lungs. Yuri’s hair was detangled and trimmed, framing his face. His pale body was unmarked, save for the red shackle rings from transport struggles. A stubborn scowl shaped his lips, somehow only adding to his beauty.

Otabek studied the shape of him on the bed. He wanted to drizzle honey over Yuri’s fingertips and nip them like grapes. He hardly noticed the other slaves leaving, seeing the satisfaction on their lord’s face.

“You will not help me, will you,” Yuri murmured when they’d gone. Otabek felt the boy’s despair like a razor-sharp rose blooming in his stomach. 

“The man with me, at the market, with the blue eyes,” Otabek said. “He is Lord Leroy. He purchased you. I wagered him that I could train you in a week.” Yuri snorted in anger. “If I win, you will serve me here. If I lose, you will go to Lord Leroy.” 

“…all the same,” Yuri murmured. 

Otabek shook his head. “You were sold as a bed slave.” 

Otabek could almost see the boy’s heart race beneath his skin. 

“No. I will not. I —” 

“Lord Leroy considers his slaves disposable. I prefer to think of mine as investments, treated with the same care we offer anything else upon which we depend to function.”

“You will not have my honor!” Yuri called, fury returning. 

“Your honor was sold,” Otabek said. “The only choice you have to make is who will take it.”

The young Lord Altin stood in front of his slave, face firm but not without compassion. 

Yuri hugged his shoulders, shivering. “You are just like the rest of them,” he whispered. 

“Perhaps,” Otabek nodded in agreement. He sat at the side of the bed and covered Yuri’s wounded wrists in cloth - part bandage, part cuff. To be safe, he wrapped it over Yuri’s fingers like mittens, discouraging any ill-conceived escape attempts. “But I am the only man in a month’s travel who might understand you. A pity to waste such colorful insults on those who cannot hear them, no?”

Yuri shook his head, still shivering, and Otabek tied the end of the cloth to his bedpost. He climbed in behind the slave, held him in spite of his struggles, and slept when Yuri finally went still.

— 

In the middle of the night Yuri woke with a cry from a nightmare, calling out for help, for his mother. 

Otabek woke and pressed a hand on Yuri’s chest. 

“It was a dream,” Otabek said, using the tongue Yuri understood. “Be calm. It was only a dream.” 

Yuri’s heart trembled beneath Otabek’s palm, wide green eyes finally focusing in the filtered moonlight. A faint night breeze off the ocean wafted through the balcony curtains, making ghosts across the bedroom floor. 

“I want to go home,” Yuri whispered. Otabek returned his arm to Yuri’s waist.

“I know.” 

— 

In the morning it was time for the slave to dress.

“What is this?” Yuri asked, touching the metal. 

“A collar and cuffs,” Otabek said. One of the servants wrapped a golden-green cloth around Yuri’s hips. “The style is popular in Cairo and Alexandria, and I have many contacts to impress there.” 

Yuri shook his head.

“No. It is _gold_ ,” Yuri said.

“Altin means gold,” Otabek said, picking up a cuff and holding it to the light. “My family’s wealth was built on its mining and sale. All slaves of Altin wear gold: at their ear, around their neck, on their ankle. For this week, at least, you are a slave of Altin.”

“I am not a slave,” Yuri whispered as Otabek clicked the cuff around his wrist. 

—

Otabek kept Yuri’s cuffs bound together, a thin chain hanging between them. He had just finished with them when a slave came through the curtain to his rooms and knelt at attention: 

“Forgive me, my Lord, Lord Leroy is here,” the slave said. It was the girl Otabek had purchased yesterday, already decorated in the golden ankle cuff and simple white tunic of the house staff. She seemed overjoyed to be serving in this new capacity, so proud of the gold at her heel.

“Thank you,” Otabek said, waving his hand in dismissal. He turned to Yuri, who was watching the new slave, perplexed. “I will bind you here, and you can see who your master will be if we fail your training.”

Yuri’s brow twitched at the word _we_. Otabek used another chain to fasten Yuri to one of the palms on the balcony. Beyond was Otabek’s courtyard, and in the midst of it a lounging pavillion where Lord Leroy already sat, sipping spiced liquor.

“Loosening your wills so early, my friend?” Otabek called down. 

“Ah! If I recall, it was _you_ who acted most recklessly yesterday,” Jean-Jacques returned. 

“So,” Otabek smirked in agreement. “And I am well into my madness this morning.” Otabek gestured to the boy beside him, setting his hand on Yuri’s shoulder, where it was promptly shrugged off. 

“Do not let him get too comfortable wearing your collar, Altin, or I shall have to decorate him in my belts instead.”

“He would look beautiful in anything, I think!” Otabek said. “One moment and we will spar face to face.”

— 

Jean-Jacques Leroy was no more cruel a lord than most, but that meant little in a place where slaves were only occasionally more valuable than horses. As they ate, Jean-Jacques asked after the boy, and Otabek pointed towards the balcony. Yuri rested in the palm shade on Otabek’s pillows, gesturing crudely towards them. 

“Not even noon and already his throat gave out from yelling?” Jean-Jacques asked. “You must have given him many occasions to scream.” This he said with a smirk over the lip of his glass, a prying curiosity. 

“I wish I had a better story for you, my friend,” Otabek lamented. “I simply made it clear his yelling would not be fruitful.”

One of Otabek’s new house slaves brought a pitcher of water, fruit slices floating in the glass to sweeten it. When a trickle escaped the mouth, creating three dark dots on Jean-Jacques’ silks, he clucked his tongue in disappointment.

“Perhaps we bought poor stock yesterday,” the lord said. He poured the water out on the slave’s feet, making a muck of the sandy dirty beneath her sandals. “And so dirty too. Clean yourself, and bring me more water.”

—

The sun arced across the sky, moving from pleasant warmth to the shimmering heat of noon.

“If I doubted your character, I might think you were trying to keep me from training,” Otabek said as one of the servants cleared their dishes.

“A good thing my character is beyond questioning,” Jean-Jacques smirked. 

“So.”

“I in fact came with aid,” Jean-Jacques gestured to his attendant, who withdrew a sheet of papyrus covered in calligraphy. Otabek scanned its contents with practiced ease. 

“The requirements for basic training,” Otabek said, reading through the checklist. 

“Now I truly _should_ leave you, my friend,” Jean-Jacques said. “Though I doubt you have any hope at all. I must recommend you read the paperwork _before_ you bet so foolishly next time. Not that I mind you lining my purse, of course.”

Otabek snorted, rose to his feet with the other lord. They clasped hands.

“ _So_ ,” Otabek agreed.

— 

“Well?” Otabek asked when he returned. Yuri had retreated into the room, half-hidden by the billowing curtains leading out onto the balcony. They made him look ethereal, an angel resting in a meadow of cotton mist.

“I would be better off with him,” Yuri said. He gestured to Otabek’s bed. “Your estate is bare, you have no foundation in this land. Lord Leroy speaks with familiarity and confidence and wears the silks to prove his wealth. The ring on his finger was ruby, so he likely has support in the north. He is more powerful than you. If I am to be someone’s….” Yuri’s mouth contorted in disgust while Otabek stared in shock, “someone’s _plaything_ I will be better pampered, almost surely, at his estate.”

“How do you know such things?” Otabek said. “I know you were not born a slave, but those are observations only a lord would make.” 

“Or a lady,” Yuri whispered. He stared at Otabek, hands crossed over his knees. The silence spread through the room. Otabek willed himself not to waste time needling answers from his slave.

“Whether or not you obey, I will spend this week training you,” Otabek said at last. “You will need to know enough language to understand commands, so we will begin there. _Da_ is ‘yes’, _niet_ is ‘no’. When I command you, you will say ‘Yes, Lord Altin.’”

Yuri tilted his head back against the wall. He was silent long enough that Otabek thought he’d given up, chosen to succumb to his time with Jean-Jacques.

“No,” Yuri finally said, lips recoiling from the word like this new language was poison. Then: “Yes.” 

“And my name.”

“Lord Altin.”

“Will you work with me?” Otabek asked. Yuri’s face filled with frustration.

“I am not a slave! My family —”

“ _Silence._ ”

Yuri flinched. 

“I know those who hunt in your lands, and they leave no one in their wake. That part of your life is over. Whatever family you had is gone.”

Yuri shook his head, eyes distant: “I know. I watched them die for me.”


	3. A Bead of Honey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, my apologies to anyone with any background in medieval studies.
> 
> On the plus side, I did finally look up what language was spoken around the Mediterranean during the rise of the Ottoman Empire, so we now know that Otabek's mainly speaking Turkish. I'm fudging Yuri's a bit but calling it Muscovian for the soon-to-be-Russia duchy of Muscov.

> _A slave must greet its master with respect and affection_
> 
> _A slave must accept handling from its betters_
> 
> _A slave must accept its master’s direction without question_
> 
> _A bed slave must do the following on command:_
> 
>   * _Fetch and serve drinks_
>   * _Fetch and serve plates_
>   * _Wash its master_
>   * _Dress its master_
>   * _Prepare itself for bedding_
>   * _Prepare its master for bedding_
>   * _Provide pleasure by mouth_
>   * _Provide pleasure by hand_
>   * _Provide pleasure by intimates_
>   * _Clean, tidy, and dress its master’s bed after use_
> 


  


Otabek read through the list, sitting at the edge of the bed, and Yuri gazed over his shoulder.

“Write it in Muscovian,” Yuri said.

“You can read?” Otabek asked. 

Yuri lifted his chin, defiant at the assumption he couldn’t.

How in the world did a village boy learn to read? 

Leaving Yuri chained to the foot of his bed, Otabek left to his study. He finished transcribing the rubric before the first dot of ink could dry and returned to find Yuri plucking at a loose thread on one of the sheets. 

The boy’s face fell the farther he read, until the corner of the paper showed his tremors. The parchment dropped from his fingers and drifted to the floor. 

“I am not a —” 

“You are,” Otabek said. He switched back to Turkish: “Now come to me.”

— 

Water, spiced liquor, white wine, fruit wine, mint tea, milk… Otabek drilled the words into Yuri, set out glasses of each and made Yuri bring them, cuffs still bound together. Then they moved to food: all of the basic tasting plates, then dinner plates, sweet finishers. 

“Honey,” Yuri repeated, vowels still unfamiliar on his tongue. “Honey.”

“Yes,” Otabek said. “Bring me honey.”

Yuri stared at the table, covered in enough plates that the cook had nearly gone mad with Otabek’s request. Yuri’s hand floated over several of the dishes, but Otabek pointedly made no indication of his accuracy.

“Honey,” Yuri said once again, and Otabek could not help but ponder which was sweeter: the thing itself or hearing this golden slave say its name.

Yuri picked up the honey saucer, placed it at Otabek’s side. 

“Good,” Otabek said, and he poured a bead of it into Yuri’s palm in reward.

— 

Otabek left Yuri by the table to practice, listened to the soft patter of Yuri repeating his new words. “Honey, honey. Mint. Mint. Honey and fruit. Fruit tea. Tea with honey. Fruit with honey. Mint tea with honey.” 

Otabek gazed at the fair slave, long hair like silk straw, a stray lock falling across his eye. What had changed, since Yuri spoke of his family? Something was different, a silent shift in the slave’s behavior.

“Fruit with mint. Mint liquor. Honey liquor,” Yuri murmured. It was not the boy’s physical appearance that made Otabek stare, but the gleam of dedication in Yuri’s eyes. In another life, he might have been a crusader.

Otabek returned to the letter. He would not tell his father about his bed slave’s eyes. 

_Three days have passed since my arrival in Halyet. Settling the estate is well underway, and I have been introduced to the southern custom of a harem…_

— 

“The raiders came when I was twelve,” Yuri said that night, when Otabek held him again. He struggled once, his elbow flying back towards Otabek’s ribs, but the lord clasped him at the waist and he went still, too tired to fight. “My aunt hid my brother and I in one of the cupboards, but when the raiders broke in they saw the extra bed and knew there was someone else. They hoped it was a girl.”

Yuri held perfectly still, only his fingertip tapping on his thigh, like a hummingbird wing.

“They started tearing apart our home. My aunt and uncle tried to stop them and they…” Yuri’s fingers beat against his thigh. “My brother… he knew if they found the cupboard they would kill us both, too.”

Otabek frowned, realizing: “He ran.”

Yuri nodded.

“So they would think it was just him, and leave me. He was no girl, so they…” 

Yuri swallowed. 

“You lost all of them,” Otabek said.

“They started to burn everything,” Yuri said. “I tried to run. All of them died for me. And still…” 

He gestured to his gold-bound wrists, the chain between them.

“They died so you could live,” Otabek said. “You still live.”

“If slavery is life.”

Otabek shifted. “Are these silks not finer than anything a village boy would ever sleep upon?” 

Yuri did not respond. He stayed frozen, still, a pale warmth against Otabek’s chest. Otabek’s heart swelled for the slave. 

He dropped his hand down the boy’s stomach, to the crux of his legs. 

“Please, no,” Yuri whimpered. 

“You must learn this week.”

“Not now,” Yuri begged. 

“Say it in your new tongue,” Otabek said. 

Yuri floundered, cursed, and then: “Please, Lord Altin, no.”

“You learn quickly,” Otabek said, and his hand fell away.

—

When Yuri woke up in the morning, the bed was empty. Yuri’s hands were still bound by their golden chain, but a wider stretch now, and they were no longer connected to the bedframe. Yuri checked his neck, his waist, but there were no other chains. He was free to leave. 

A piece of parchment was pinned to the sheer canopy.

_A slave greets its master with a bow and says ‘My Lord’. A bed slave will offer its cheek to be kissed and its waist to be held. Bring a glass of ‘mint tea and honey’ to the courtyard and greet me this way._

Everything was in Muscovian but the quotes - though Lord Altin had still transliterated them into Cyrillic. Whatever quiet Yuri had felt last night, seduced by the softness of Lord Altin’s bed and the idea of someone - anyone - understanding him, vanished. 

He was _not_ a slave.

Yuri crumpled the parchment in his hand and went to the balcony, throwing it over the edge. One of the house slaves looked up from their sweeping. Lord Altin, reclined on the pillows in the pavilion, did not.

For some reason, this infuriated Yuri. 

“Look at me!” He cried out, and still Lord Altin did nothing. 

Yuri went back inside, around the ornate bed with its elevated stairs and into the dressing chamber. He found Lord Altin’s wardrobe, largely occupied with jackets and travelwear more familiar to Yuri than the light, sun-shielding attire of this new city. Yuri withdrew a pair of tunic pants, shimmying them up to his hips and tying them off. They were silken and luxurious and made Yuri frown with submerged memories, scratching at the surface of his subconscious without ever breaking the ice.

Of the things he could wear with his hands chained together, there was only a sun cloak, but he shrugged it onto his shoulders all the same. It was too big for him, dusting the floor in his wake, but he didn’t care.

“Mint tea with honey,” Yuri demanded when he found the first servant outside Lord Altin’s room. The servant looked at him oddly, so he repeated it, trying to annunciate the strange words. It must have worked, for the servant beckoned him, led him to the kitchen.

The slaves tittered to each other, glancing and laughing at the way Yuri had dressed himself, or perhaps at Yuri himself. He yelled at them to be quiet, but they didn’t understand anything besides his anger, and this seemed only to amuse them.

Tea tray in hand, Yuri navigated Lord Altin’s estate. The main complex formed a square around the central courtyard, rimmed with covered walkways, everything open to the air. Beyond that square, from what Yuri could see from the balcony, were private grounds still in the midst of being reconquered: stakes set up for orchards and vineyards and guesthouses or groundsquarters dotting the land. Yuri walked the inner path, beneath the overhang and its draping blossoms, and paused in the shade. He could smell the lotus blossoms in Lord Altin’s ponds, the faint hint of the sea. 

The tray in his arms was heavy, but the tea did not make it so.

He was not a slave.

If he had earned this much freedom - only hand chains - in so short a time, he could be without chains entirely by the end of the week. That would make it so much easier to run. He could see the sea from here, sneak onto a boat, he could — 

“My lord,” Yuri announced as he approached the pavilion and the lounging foreigner. He set the tea beside Lord Altin and hesitated for a breath before twisting his cheek towards him, bowing to place it within range.

“Yuri.” Lord Altin’s lips felt like flower petals wrapped around metal rings. “Take off those clothes.” 

Yuri’s heart sputtered. 

“Now,” he commanded. Yuri didn’t move, couldn’t move. “Or I will take them off you.”

When Yuri did nothing, Lord Altin rose, taking the tie of the cloak in his hands. Yuri grabbed his wrists on instinct. 

Lord Altin paused. They stared at one another, and though Yuri’s hands tightened he did not try to stop Lord Altin when he resumed his actions. He held his lord’s wrists as the clasp was freed, looked down as Lord Altin brushed the fabric off Yuri’s shoulders. His body was revealed anew, and Yuri’s thumbs pet feebly, like whispered pleas, on the crease of Lord Altin’s wrists.

“I will not hurt you,” Lord Altin said, “if you are obedient. You do not need to fear me if you are earnest in your service.”

Lord Altin’s hands dropped to the ties of Yuri’s pants, and this time he _did_ push back. 

“Let me,” Yuri whispered.

The gold of his cuffs caught the palm-filtered light. Yuri’s bare chest twinkled like sunlight off the sea. He pulled the ties free and lowered the pants, only the simple green skirt beneath. 

Lord Altin summoned a servant with a wave of his hand, and dismissed her with the discarded attire.

“Much better,” the lord mused. His hands trailed down Yuri’s chest, chasing the lingering flecks of light from Yuri’s cuffs. “Come, lay beside me.” 

Yuri found himself on his back, surrounded by embroidered and beaded pillows, each worth more than all of his village. Resentment bubbled up in him again as Lord Altin sipped his tea. He wanted to smack it out of his hands, spill it across Lord Altin’s lap. The jingle of his chain kept him still. 

Then Lord Altin touched him. 

“A slave must accept handling from its betters,” Lord Altin reminded Yuri when he turned away. 

Yuri closed his eyes: “I know.”

— 

The day passed in a series of drills — more language learning and memorization — and strange empty periods where Lord Altin left to see to affairs that did not involve Yuri. Yuri found himself with the other house slaves, kneeling on cotton instead of velvet and cashmere, eating unsalted flatbread and post-ripe fruit. They talked to him, their eyes and elbows suggesting indecency, but he did not understand. He felt apart from them. Though they all wore gold, Yuri’s skirt was the only one made with silk. He hated himself for wishing for the Lord’s return, if only so he could hear his curses. 

Yuri tried to imagine escaping, not knowing anything of the language but the names of food and drinks.

He would have to pay more attention to his lessons. 

— 

Halyet was near enough to the desert that nights felt like ice. Otabek had the scarf of his turban pulled across his face, his robe drawn closed around his shoulders. His stable slave was asleep in a bundle of wool shawls when Otabek approached, startling him with the clang of horse hooves on stone.

Otabek had spent most of his evening with Jean-Jacques thinking of the slave waiting in his bed, which only sharpened his disappointment when he found his chamber empty.

He went to the balcony, but there was nothing, and no one in the pavilion either, though he would have seen them coming in. Otabek checked the bath and the guest rooms - bare, hollow things until the house mistress could organize their furnishing. They were not even lit, but grabbing one of the hall lamps and pushing its glowing circle into the corners revealed them empty. 

Nothing. 

Otabek walked to the servant’s quarters, footfalls heavy with frustration, but they softened as he heard a voice behind the curtain. 

“Cow’s milk. Goat’s milk. Can I please have the milk? Can I please have the mint tea? Can I please have the yogurt? Here is your honey, my Lord.”

“My Lord,” another voice corrected his pronunciation.

“My Lord,” Yuri said again. 

Otabek peeled back the curtain, revealing his bed slave and the house mistress in front of the cellar.

“My Lord,” Yuri startled. 

“My Lord,” the house mistress bowed. 

“Come,” Otabek said simply, and Yuri did.

— 

When they were out of earshot, Otabek glanced down at his slave, “When I come home for the night, I expect you to be in by bed, warming the sheets for me.” 

“I had to study,” Yuri countered. 

Otabek stopped, grabbed Yuri’s cuffed wrist and cocked it to the side. Uncomfortable, but not painful. 

“ _A slave will accept its master’s direction without question,_ ” Otabek quoted.

Yuri’s eyes danced along the chain connecting his wrists. 

“Yes, my Lord,” he murmured.

When they reached Otabek’s bed chamber, the lord gestured his slave to the bed and went to his wardrobe to change. It should have been Yuri undressing him, but that would come in time.

He returned in his nightwear and climbed the steps to the bed, parting the covers and sliding between them. Yuri’s small form had done little to heat the cold sheets. There was no upset, this time, when Otabek’s arm came around Yuri’s waist. 

“Tell me,” Otabek said, once they’d settled, grown used to each other’s bodies. “How does a village boy learn to differentiate lords like you did? Your file said you had never been enslaved before, and yet… surely you are older then twelve. If that is when the raiders captured you…”

The question sat between them, untouched, while the cicadas sang in the courtyard and an owl’s talons scraped the roof. 

“The raid captain thought I was beautiful,” Yuri said. “I was spared because he knew a duke who paid handsomely for ‘magnificent creatures’.”

Out of Yuri’s sight, Otabek’s lips pursed.

“The duke’s wife had a menagerie of exotic beasts,” Yuri said. “He purchased me and I was placed in a gilded cage, next to her tigers. She would bring her guests to see me and they would sit and gossip about lords and barons and the court.”

“You were not a slave, but a pet,” Otabek said.

“It seems no different here,” Yuri whispered. “My cage simply has silk sheets.”

“I expect much more from you than mere beauty.”

The slave tensed, bringing back the previous night’s memories. 

“Please, no, my lord,” Yuri whispered, switching languages.

“Tomorrow,” Otabek said. A command, not a question. 

He’d nearly fallen asleep before he heard Yuri murmur: “Yes, my Lord.”


	4. Privacy and Intimacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much everyone for all the lovely feedback! I finished writing the story today - it wound up at six chapters, so expect one about every other day for the next weekish :)
> 
> Thanks again to Raikovart over on tumblr for the inspirational art.

This time Yuri woke with Lord Altin, stirring as the bed shifted underneath him. He sat up, blinking bleary-eyed, washing away fragments of his dreams. Lord Altin went to the balcony, the morning twilight illuminating his sleepwear in violet, like a distant mountain. He stood surveying his estate, and Yuri felt a tremor in his chest.

Lord Altin pulled a chain beside his bed, stretching as he awaited the response. The housemistress came into his room less than a minute later, already prepared for her day. Gold bangles hung at her wrists and glittery beads dripped from her ears, signaling her servitude. 

“Lilia,” Lord Altin greeted, and she bowed. Whatever Lord Altin said next, it clearly referred to Yuri. The house mistress looked at him, cocked her chin, and said “Come.”

His chain jingled as he followed her.

She showed him to the only tapestry hanging on Lord Altin’s wall and pulled it aside, revealing a small hallway. At the end was a tiny chamber with two rooms: one for washing, and one with a small cot, vanity, and wardrobe. She opened the wardrobe, revealing a set of three silks that matched Yuri’s current green skirt.

He could only partially understand her, more gestural than anything. 

This was his space. His bed, his room, his clothes. He would prepare himself for Lord Altin here. Yuri committed to memory one phrase she kept saying that he did not understand, to ask Lord Altin later: _Prima Consortia_.

The house mistress sat him down at the vanity and showed him how to use the brushes, the rouge, the oil for his lips. She even braided his hair, until the reflection in the mirror no longer felt familiar.

When she deemed him suitable, she brought out a dress for him to wear. She took off his skirt and made him step into the cloud-like fabric, pulling it up his body and looping it at his neck. The back of it was bare, showing the long stretch of his spine. 

Lilia circled him, inspecting, and once satisfied managed to convey that he should stay there until he was summoned. She left, disappearing back down the hall, and Yuri surveyed his room.

He had never, never in his life, had privacy.

He sat in his green silk on the edge of the cot, holding the pillow against his chest. The windows had wooden lattices, save for one, near the head of the cot, which had no covering beyond its shutters. A box hung from the sill, long empty. 

Yuri imagined what it would look like with flowers.

The tiny bell on the wall chimed, and Yuri rose. The tapestry was heavier than he thought, more of a door than any of the curtains elsewhere in the complex. He stepped out expecting to find Lord Altin waiting for him. Instead, another of the house slaves gestured to the bath chamber.

Lord Altin stood from the metal basin, making a waterfall of his naked body. Suds dripped off the stones of his abdomen, the boulders of his biceps. Yuri could see individual trickles of water carving between his muscles, down the V between his hips, and off the hooded tip of flesh at the root of him, dormant for the time being.

“Come,” Lord Altin commanded, and Yuri tripped over himself in his daze.

— 

Dressing Lord Altin proved more difficult than Yuri imagined, and only partially due to his overwhelmed distraction. Lilia’s disapproving tsk became the metronome to Yuri’s practice. He didn’t dry Lord Altin properly, he didn’t tuck Lord Altin’s underthings properly (how could he, with his fingers quaking?), he didn’t bundle Lord Altin’s hair properly. By the time the lord was finally dressed to Lilia’s standards, Yuri had expended a full day’s worth of effort. He wanted to rest.

Instead, Lord Altin brought him on a trip to the city.

Yuri held the lord’s waist as they rode through the streets of Halyet, bare feet dangling behind the stirrups, trailed by two security slaves. 

“Lord Leroy invited us to a soirée at week’s end, where you will be tested. We must make sure you look the part,” Lord Altin explained.

“Where are we going?” Yuri asked. 

“To distribute our coin.”

— 

The cobbler measured Yuri’s feet, the jeweler his forehead and neck, and the tailor discovered things to measure Yuri never knew existed. Lord Altin gestured to colors, gemstones, and drank apple tea with the merchants while Yuri sat at his side, trying to understand why the lord’s fingertips trailing down his bare back felt like hugging his childhood blanket.

On the way back to the compound he leaned against Lord Altin and had to be roused awake again when they arrived. 

“Yuri,” Lord Altin said. Again: “Yuri.”

Yuri startled, sitting up straight, and found Lord Altin’s cool gaze upon him.

“My Lord,” Yuri whispered.

Lord Altin held out his arm, helping Yuri down. “Go. Study.”

“Where are you going?” Yuri asked, then wondered why he cared.

“To meet with Lord Leroy.”

“Wait,” Yuri called. Lord Altin reined down his horse. “What does _prima consortia_ mean?” 

Lord Altin let out a breath: “It is a term from Venezia. It means first consort; the favored one amongst a lord’s harem. Only the prima consortia stays near his bed.”

Yuri’s face flushed. “Am I your prima?” 

Lord Altin drew his horse up alongside Yuri, fingertips caressing his golden braids. “Right now, Yuri, you are not even mine. That is why you must study.”

— 

Study lasted until Yuri nearly fell asleep in a bowl of sweet rice pudding. Then Lilia dismissed him and he jingled his way back to Lord Altin’s room, into Lord Altin’s bed, beneath Lord Altin’s sheets.

He woke when Lord Altin kissed his nape. 

“My Lord,” Yuri yawned. Lord Altin was under the sheets, too, and his hand was under Yuri’s dress, having slipped in from the back to curl around his chest, up between his pectorals and then down. 

“Tell me a story,” Lord Altin said, switching to Muscovian.

“What story.”

“How did you escape?” Lord Altin asked. His lips moved against Yuri’s skin; his hand dipped between Yuri’s legs and Yuri didn’t freeze, like he thought he would. He melted. “I heard you, that first day. You said you escaped before, and you would escape again.”

“I did, but not from the duchess,” Yuri whispered, surprised that he had breath, surprised that he could line up even two thoughts.

“Tell me,” the Lord kissed Yuri’s ear, fingers curling around the base of him. Yuri struggled to make sense of anything, the intensity of Lord Altin’s touch drowning out everything else in his head.

“A baron fell in love with me,” Yuri finally managed, fighting against a current of emotions. “His men came for me and broke me from my cage in the middle of the night. When the duchess learned I was stolen she sent her forces in retribution. I was traded back and forth between them, like a game, constantly stolen and retaken. Then, one night, when the baron was taking me back again, the coach was attacked.”

Yuri had to stop to breathe. He could smell wine, now, on the lord’s lips. They roved along his neck, making Yuri shudder, and the hand between his legs summoned something dark and hungry inside him.

“My lord,” Yuri whimpered. 

“Tell me,” Otabek repeated. Then: “Touch me.”

He guided Yuri’s hands, and when Yuri’s fingertips connected the flesh was no longer dormant and soft as it had been in the bath, but flared and ready like a hooded cobra. Yuri touched. He spoke, worried that if he didn’t he would never breathe again.

“I only escaped because the soldier in the coach valued his life more than his orders. He abandoned me. The horses spooked and when they finally stopped I had no idea where I was, but I was alone.”

“The cloth,” Lord Altin interrupted.

“What?”

“Behind you - the cloth— ” 

Yuri grabbed it and held it out as Lord Altin gasped, yanking it down between his legs. Yuri listened to the sound of the lord’s pleasure, quick vocal breaths, and held perfectly still as hot fluid seeped between his fingers. 

When he had recovered, Lord Altin pressed the fabric into the grooves of Yuri’s fingers, swirling the mess away. The dirtied cloth was pushed outside the silk curtains, to be taken away.

Yuri’s body still ached, but Lord Altin’s attention had turned elsewhere. 

“You were free?” 

Yuri stumbled after the conversation, nodding at last: “For a few days.”

— 

The next day, Lilia taught Yuri to make Lord Altin’s bed. They practiced on every bed in the estate, then undid and redid Lord Altin’s sheets until she was satisfied. She taught him where to dispose of used cloths, where to get more, and showed Yuri the drawers in Lord Altin’s headboard that stored oils and polished wooden knobs and handkerchiefs.

When she took him to his room, his private room, she showed him a similar collection there, though his one included salves and soothing tinctures in case the lord’s passion lead to injury. 

The training checklist sat on Yuri’s vanity, weighed down with a jar of whipped fat that the housemistress opened and rubbed between her thumb and forefinger. He didn’t know what she was saying, save for a few words, but as she left she patted his bottom, and he realized with a flush what she intended him to do.

— 

Yuri reclined on his cot, eyes closed, dress hiked up around his waist. His knees were bent and spread, and his hands rested between his legs, fingers covered in creamy fat. The midday heat lay over him like a blanket, only occasionally shooed away by the window’s breeze. 

In the village, he’d seen the bull with the cows, the ram with the ewes. He’d even seen the animals in the menagerie on rare occasion. He knew what was expected of him, that strange unsightly dance, yet when he closed his eyes the image of Lord Altin was anything but unsightly.

The only time Yuri had touched himself before - like this, rose-cheeked, hands so tentative, body burning - the duchess had shrieked and had him beaten. He still felt that fear as his fist fell into position, thumb exploring the velvety sheath while his other hand dipped farther down. How would it feel, to be the ewe beneath Lord Altin? Would he be expected to tuck his bottom in the air like a tigress? To spread his legs and brace for his lord’s weight on his back, like the cow?

Yuri froze. 

_His_ lord? Had that thought just crossed his mind?

This was a means to an end, Yuri reminded himself. He had that fury inside of him, that need to be free. Laying with Lord Altin was just the price he had to pay. And it was worth it, wasn’t it? He could lift his tail for the chance to escape. He could set aside his honor, if it meant he remained his own man.

Yuri’s body had wilted. 

He dropped his flesh, letting it fall heavy on his pubic triangle. The lower hand lingered, fingertips resting on his secret place, still wondering. 

The bell rang.


	5. For Freedom or Choice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This follows immediately after the previous chapter, so you may wish to go read the last scene before you dive in. 
> 
> Or just dive in :)
> 
> Also please note, **I did increase the rating to explicit**.

He would be like the cow, then, Yuri realized. He hadn’t expected it to go like this, quite so quickly, but the heat of Lord Altin’s desire throbbed against the inside of Yuri’s thigh, unmistakable. He leaned over Lord Altin’s desk, mindful of the papers there, and widened his thighs like he’d seen in the field, before the bull. The sudden rigidity slid up his leg, resting between Yuri’s cheeks and gliding through the slippery fat he’d left there. 

Was this what it felt like?

No. He would have noticed, wouldn’t he, if Lord Altin had broken through his barrier? But he hadn’t. Didn’t. He just ran his thick flesh along that crevice. 

“Why are you waiting?” Yuri hissed, “Take it.” Because however unsettling his decision to submit, the anticipation made it unbearable. 

Lord Altin’s hand tightened on his waist. 

“I cannot take your honor until your initiation, when you are mine,” Lord Altin said. “… but there are other ways.”

It felt like a candle, wax already warm and soft to the touch with an iron core. It dropped from between Yuri’s cheeks and instead fit into place beneath them, brushing the wrinkled skin that held Yuri’s weakest points. 

The contact bloomed white hot, like oil flashing in a cook’s pan. 

“Close your legs. Tightly,” Lord Altin commanded: one language, then the other. When Yuri did, he felt that bestial bone start to thrust between them, making a woman’s furrow of his thighs. 

Lord Altin became the bull. 

He held Yuri’s hips, fingers keeping the dress up out of the way, and bucked forward with a carnal intensity that made Yuri’s grip slip along the desk. He scrambled for purchase as the lord continued, fat smearing between his thighs, chain jingling.

Lord Altin lasted far longer than the bull.

By the time it was over Yuri couldn’t breathe. Lord Altin pulled away and his milk dripped off the desk and down Yuri’s thighs. 

“Clean up,” Lord Altin commanded, and Yuri, hardly able to hold himself upright, rasped “Yes, my Lord.”

—

Against the icy tendrils of desert night, Lord Altin’s touch felt magical, a spell of heat and comfort woven with little gestures: a pet on his cheek, cupping his bottom, dragging the cut pad of his thumb down Yuri’s chest. Every touch pushed the night’s chilly breath farther away, until they’d made a chamber of their heat beneath the sheets, fueled by Lord Altin’s quiet panting and Yuri’s conflicted desire. 

“Your skin is like cream and your hair is like honey,” Lord Altin whispered into his ear, and Yuri cocked his head towards the lord, whimpering in response, pushing against the hand between his legs. “I could lay you out and nip every morsel of your flesh.” 

He’d come back from Lord Leroy’s, tipsy again with his liquor. Yuri kept his mouth near the lord’s, inhaling the spicy scent and the underlying clove that Lord Altin used to soap his face. Yuri clutched Lord Altin’s sleepwear in his fists, smelling, holding, because if he let go surely he would fall into the dark and drown.

He drank Lord Altin’s breath, brought a jingling hand up to clutch at his neck and the hair softened by an evening beneath Lord Altin’s turban. 

“Please, my lord,” Yuri begged, again and again, like a prayer. 

—

Yuri woke when the sun made it too hot to be held, but he didn’t want to move from Lord Altin’s arms.

He stayed there, sweat dusting his skin, until Lord Altin stirred.

Yuri twisted, set a hand on the lord’s chest: “Tea?” 

“And water,” Lord Altin rumbled.

Yuri rose from the bed, reaching for his dress, and realized in curiosity that he did not jingle. 

He stared at his wrist, at the empty hoop on his cuff that normally held the chain. He saw the golden length dangling from one of the drawers in the headboard, discarded sometime in the night. Yuri stretched his arms apart, as far as they would go. 

He pulled on his dress and went to the kitchen.

When he returned he drew the canopy aside and set down the tea and pitcher, watching the still drowsy lord relaxing in his silks. He knelt beside Lord Altin and pet his hairline, brushing dark strands away from his face. 

“Yura,” Lord Altin murmured. 

Yuri winced, flinching against the sudden assault of memory.

“What is it?” Lord Altin asked.

“My grandfather…” Yuri shook his head. “He would call me that.” Lord Altin sat up, hand resting on Yuri’s thigh. “It was a long time ago.”

“After you escaped?”

Another shake. “Before. Before everything.” Yuri laid down beside the lord, head pillowing in his lap. He ran his lips between his teeth, exhaling over the lord’s silk. “After I escaped I made it to a city near Muscov. I was… taken in by a guild, kept with the other apprentices. It took almost a week before I realized I could not leave.”

Lord Altin’s brow pinched. Yuri stared at the window, like maybe if he looked hard enough he could see across the water, to those other lands.

“I’d told them my story. They… said they were keeping me safe, but I found flyers with my name on them. They were using me.”

“Using you?”

“My story. It… made people sympathetic.”

“Is that how you learned to read? You became a politician?” 

Yuri snorted. “No. I was a living flag, or a lucky charm. But they did not keep me safe enough. Their opponents came for me, and instead of turning me into a martyr, they sold me south. I wound up in the slave pens in Venezia, where no one could understand when I told them I was not a slave.” He lifted his eyes to the lord’s dark pair: “Not until you.”

Lord Altin drew Yuri into his arms, touched his lips to Yuri’s ear. “I told you it would be easiest to forget what came before.” His fingers rode up Yuri’s dress, squeezed his thigh. “You _are_ a slave,” he murmured, and Yuri said nothing, only stared at the sea.

—

Yuri’s tongue felt soft beneath Otabek’s fingers. He pushed down on it, pressing it back in Yuri’s mouth until his throat bobbed with discomfort. Otabek slid a finger beneath Yuri’s tongue, pinching it and caressing the tip with his thumb. He traced Yuri’s perfect teeth and then dipped his fingertip into the space between Yuri’s cheek and gums. When he’d thoroughly explored the slave’s mouth, he circled Yuri’s lips, rinsing them in the saliva he’d accumulated.

“Why do you do this?” Yuri asked when Otabek pulled his fingers away, mouth contorted like he’d eaten sour grapes. 

“A slave shall accept its master’s direction without question,” Otabek said. Then: “And give pleasure by mouth on command.”

“You find this pleasurable?” Yuri asked before Otabek’s fingers pushed into his mouth again. He held his jaw slack and growled as Otabek’s two fingers tickled the roof. His tongue lifted against them, like trying to dislodge the invasive presence, but Otabek didn’t budge.

“What pleasures me is irrelevant,” Otabek said. “You must be accustomed to touch here to pass your training.”

They rested together in the pavilion, enjoying a brief break between visitors. Otabek had brought the slave out with him in the morning when the first guests arrived: merchants and captains, all hoping to embed their business with the new lord. Yuri had been docile and beautiful, reclining silently by Otabek and allowing himself to be pet as the discussion carried on around him. 

The next time Otabek withdrew his fingers, Yuri pressed: “This is the last task?”

“You must prepare me to bed you,” Otabek said. “We will practice tonight.”

He slid his fingers against Yuri’s tongue again, pressing them into his mouth until Yuri choked. 

“That is enough for now,” Otabek said. He wiped his fingers on a handkerchief. “Go to Lilia. You need to study.”

Yuri’s eyes flashed. It looked like he would rebel, or at least take issue with Otabek’s decision, but the slave simply swallowed, composed himself, and left with a whispered “Yes, my lord.”

—

The oils went on easily, turning Lord Altin’s skin to silk, and Yuri treated it as such. He caressed it with his fingertips, felt it harden in his hand, and when the cobra was ready Yuri twisted onto his stomach, lifting his bottom from the bed like a tigress to accept the snake’s bite. 

Once more the lord found himself at home between Yuri’s clamped thighs, gliding through them, feeling the musculature through Yuri’s softness. Yuri panted with the sensation of it, and when it was over he had the cloth ready, capturing his lord’s cream.

Afterwards, when Lord Altin slept, Yuri climbed from the bed and went to the balcony. The complex’s broad doors were bolted closed for the night, but the smaller door within, more practical for men and not carts and horses, hung ajar.

A surge of panic took his breath away.

Yuri crept from Lord Altin’s room, through the hanging curtain and down the twisting stairs to the main floor. He crossed the pavilion on feather light feet, not making a sound, and his body fit perfectly through the gap.

He expected it to smell different, the air outside Lord Altin’s compound, but it was just the sea and the sun-warmed dirt cooling with the night. Yuri walked between the rows of seedlings and empty trellises waiting to be filled, olives and dates and grapes. He crossed the cart path that would help harvest whatever fruits the seedlings bore. In the pasture Lord Altin’s sturdy horse raised her head and flicked an ear at him.

The wall bounding Lord Altin’s property was too tall to see over, but not too tall to climb. Yuri hissed as he scraped his elbow on the stone. He made it to the top of the wall and sat, shivering in his scuffed silk skirt. Below him was Halyet: ship mast lamps swaying like a field of fireflies, the city proper asleep save for the occasional yodels of lost drunkards.

Yuri could make it to the town, climb into the belly of one of those ships, and pray it was headed towards Istanbul and not Alexandria. He could pray he wasn’t caught and pray he found enough to eat and pray that when he arrived he could sell the silk on his body to pay for passage north. 

And then what?

It was cold, and Yuri wrapped his arms around himself, staring at the possibility below. He thought of how warm Lord Altin’s chest felt against his back, how powerfully Lord Altin’s arms latched around his waist. 

His thighs were still sticky with oil.

The ground outside Lord Altin’s estate waited below Yuri’s hanging feet. Yuri sat there while the stars twisted above him, heat seeping out of his skin until his teeth chattered and the fair hair of his arms pimpled upright. It took him that long to realize freedom did not lie on one side of the wall or the other, but in the fact that he sat astride it, able to choose.


	6. The Slave from Muscov

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW HERE WE ARE. This was so much fun; it's hard to believe we reached the end so quickly.
> 
>  **UPDATE** : No Epilogue. I just couldn't get it to work no matter how hard I tried! I'm sorry! You can read/see more about what I tried [here](https://nomanono.tumblr.com/post/165839105128/scrapped-epilogues-golden-lord).
> 
>  **CONTENT WARNING** : Racial slurs used to categorize slaves.

Yuri fell on his way down from the wall, tripping and ripping his dress, scuffing his knee in the dirt. He hugged his shoulders against the cold, shaking as his feet pattered across the field. 

When he slipped through the cracked door, he startled at the shadow inside. Lord Altin stood before the pavilion, draped in a thick wool cloak, waiting. His crop hung from one hand, the other relaxed and empty. For a frozen moment Yuri stared at him, torn between fear and elation. Then Lord Altin extended his arm in welcome. 

Yuri ran to him. 

Lord Altin’s chest was bare beneath the cloak, burning against Yuri’s frozen skin. His lord draped the wool around Yuri’s trembling shoulders, then lifted the silk of Yuri’s dress.

It was unclear just when Yuri started crying: whether it was before the crop kissed his thighs or during the punishment or afterwards, when Lord Altin picked up the slave and brought him to his bed. His tears had diminished by the time Lord Altin took off his tattered dress and brushed salve on the crop marks and Yuri’s bleeding knee. Yuri felt like he’d almost drowned, and now he lay on the shores of some new land, naked and clean, everything that came before washed away. 

He nestled into Lord Altin’s chest, pressed his lips to the lord’s collar bone. 

He was held, and he was warm, and he slept.

— 

The next morning Otabek awoke with a stretch to find his slave beside him, washed and clean, hair freshly braided, green eyes aglow with warmth like the morning sun.

“Good morning, my Lord,” Yuri whispered, and there was tea already laid out beside the bed. 

Yuri undressed Otabek for his bath, washed him and dressed him anew, and when Otabek went to his study Yuri stayed behind to tidy the bed. The slave joined him later, relaxing on the pillows in the turret. The gingerness of his punished thighs showed only in how daintily he settled his weight. 

He was calm. The fire still burned in Yuri’s eyes, the vivacity and awareness and intelligence, but it was no longer a wildfire, raging out of control. The blaze had found purpose and focus, and it burned at Otabek’s heel, waiting to be directed.

Lilia announced the arrival of their formalwear for the evening: the cobbler and tailor and jeweler all delivering their wares. 

“What is this?” Yuri asked, his Turkish still accented, but passable.

“For you,” Otabek said, handing him the perfumed bundles, tied in fine ribbon instead of twine.

“Come,” Lilia said, gesturing to the bed slave. “Let us prepare you.”

— 

Yuri followed the housemistress to his private room. He unwrapped each bundle with care, reveling in the luscious fabrics and dripping jewels. He brought them to his face and smelled the different perfumes, the leather of the slippers, the nose-crinkling metallic of the collar and cuffs.

When they were all laid out on the cot Yuri couldn’t quite believe it was real. He blushed as his fingers stroked the embroidery, tinkled through the golden coins suspended from the skirt. 

Lilia cleared her throat.

Yuri refocused himself and removed his clothes, but before he could reach for the new attire Lilia shook her head and tapped the canister on Yuri’s vanity. 

That was right. If he could prove his training, he would belong to Lord Altin tonight. He would be initiated. He could offer his lord his honor.

The fat felt almost familiar now on his fingers, and he turned away from Lilia to apply it between his cheeks. She took a cloth and cleaned the excess so nothing would mark his new wardrobe, then stood back and offered her occasional tsks if Yuri reached for a garment out of order.

“Thank you,” Yuri whispered as Lilia finished decorating his face.

The housemistress just hummed. She looked over Yuri’s shoulder, into the mirror, and studied his face. Satisfied, she made him stand and twirl. As the finishing touch she handed him the collar, but when he brought it to his neck she pointed to the tapestry.

“Give it to your lord.”

— 

Jean-Jacques’ soirée took place in his courtyard, which was dominated not by a pavilion but an ancient tree, taller than even his highest tower. Its roots rippled out from the base like ribbons, and in each whorl blankets had been laid down and covered in pillows, creating a dozen small areas to relax and take tea or liquor. 

There were enough guests to fill the spaces, too: lords and ladies, captains and judges, all stepping between the plush pools and dipping in and out of conversations. Some areas held smoking casks at their centers, occupants passing a hosed pipe between themselves. Others sported thick bundles of hanging vine from which thinly clad slaves danced and displayed their bodies.

Jean-Jacques sat like a sultan in the largest pool, flanked by his wife and two decorated women wearing slave collars. Sara sipped smoke from the pool’s pipe, far more formal in posture than Lord Leroy’s casual affluence. They waved to Otabek and bid him join them.

Otabek greeted them with twin kisses before sitting, and Yuri settled at his side, leaning towards his lord.

“It appears you will lose two bets tonight, my friend,” Sara mused to Jean-Jacques, watching the honey-haired slave nestle. 

“I admit I hardly believe this is the same slave I saw last week,” Jean-Jacques mused. “But you bet he would last an hour, good lady, and there is time yet for his temper to flare.”

Jean-Jacques clasped Yuri’s chin, and though Yuri’s eyes flashed he kept himself pliable, allowing his head to be turned without resistance.

“We could have him tested sooner,” Otabek said. “I know how dearly you love your wagers, and am certain you have a stringent difficulty set for his examination. Something to make him snap?”

Jean-Jacques relinquished his hold, accepted the pipe from Sara and bubbled the solution in the vessel before enjoying the smoke of it. He puffed at the pipe, eyes roving Yuri’s body.

“Mmm,” Jean-Jacques said. “I think that would make it too easy for you, my friend. There is fire still in his eyes. I can see it.” Jean-Jacques blew out his smoke into Yuri’s face. Yuri’s upper lip curled momentarily in anger, but again, he did nothing. “I might need time to stoke it.”

“So,” Otabek replied, flagging his hand in assent. 

Slaves came with trays of food, offering curried pastries and skewers of tender meats and date-sweetened vegetables. Above them, in the tree’s canopy, candles flickered within glass mosaic lamps, scattering a thousand shards of color onto the already twinkling lords and ladies. More than once Otabek caught Yuri staring at the magnificence of Jean-Jacques’ estate, and he set his hand on his slave’s thigh, pressing through the sheer material, reminding him.

“Did you teach him to smoke?” Jean-Jacques asked during a lull, as Otabek played his lips over the hookah pipe. “Try him. I want to see how he handles it.”

Otabek lowered the pipe to Yuri’s mouth, holding it steady for him as the slave sat up and took it between his lips. 

“Inhale slowly,” Otabek whispered into Yuri’s ear, but the slave still coughed, eyes reddening, as he took his first breath.

Jean-Jacques broke into boisterous laughter.

“His first initiation of the night!” Jean-Jacques chuckled. “Do you think he will choke on you, too, my friend?”

“I should hope not, with our training,” Otabek said, taking the pipe from Yuri, sucking on the smoke, and passing it to one of Sara’s slaves. Otabek’s fingers came to Yuri’s lips and Yuri opened them. Yuri suckled on Otabek’s two forefingers, eyes closing as Jean-Jacques smirked.

“Impressive,” Jean-Jacques admitted, leaning over to inspect the slave’s form.

“Have you considered switching occupations, my lord?” Sara asked. “Training slaves seems to suit you.”

“Make no mistake, an Altin could never be separated from their gold,” Jean-Jacques said. “They pretend to be simple merchants, but they are bankers through and through.”

“So,” Otabek agreed.

“I do have a new batch of Orientals, if such things appeal to you, my lord,” Sara said. “Lord Leroy was quite pleased with his selection from my last shipment.”

“So,” Jean-Jacques lit with excitement and raised his hand, snapping his fingers. “Guang-Hong!”

He lowered his hand as a boy scampered to him. Jean-Jacques grabbed the boy’s wrist, pulled him into his arms: “The name is perhaps too exotic. I think I might call him Little Bear instead. He looks like a young cub, does he not?”

The slave had only a simple skirt. His exposed back was marred with red stripes from a cane or whip, one particularly fresh. Jean-Jacques plucked absently at the scab, oblivious to the slave’s pained expression.

Yuri sank closer to Otabek’s chest, and Otabek laid his arm over Yuri’s waist, rubbing the exposed skin of his stomach.

“Would you favor one, Lord Altin?” Sara asked. 

“I favor challenge,” Otabek responded. “It is what attracted me to this one.”

“So,” Sara mused. From one of the mosques the evening cry began. Several guests passed under an archway with the marking for a prayer room. There were merchants from all the sea’s reaches here, a hardly-subtle show of Jean-Jacques’ influence disguised as a casual soirée. Sara waited until the end of the cry before turning to Jean-Jacques: “I believe that marks the hour, my friend.” 

With a sigh, Jean-Jacques reached into his pocket and flicked two gold coins towards her.

“Let us test the slave, then,” Jean-Jacques said, pushing Guang-Hong from his lap. “I want to see what cost I can recuperate.” 

— 

Yuri had been prepared to be touched and examined by his lord. 

He was not prepared for Lord Leroy’s hands.

That was the first decision Lord Altin made, one the group agreed would appropriately test Yuri’s dedication. The initial tasks had been so easy: fetching a series of plates and pitchers, undressing and dressing himself, washing Guang-Hong (sweet Guang-Hong, who looked so happy to be touched kindly). No matter how lavish Lord Leroy’s sheets, they folded the same. Simple. 

Now, in a bedroom of Jean-Jacques estate far more furnished than the entirety of Lord Altin’s property, Yuri knelt with Lord Leroy’s hands moving across his limbs like he might skin him alive.

Yuri gazed at Lord Altin as it happened, widening his legs when Lord Leroy’s hand ran up his thigh. He held still as Lord Leroy lifted the bottom of his dress and pulled a cheek to the side, running his thumb through the fat there. 

“Is this all the punishment he needed?” Lord Leroy asked, fingers following the crop marks. 

“You can tame a stallion with carrots or crop,” Lord Altin responded. 

Lord Leroy adopted a devious smirk, hand gliding between Yuri’s legs to squeeze: “I am certain he enjoyed your carrot.”

Sara stood at the sidelines, marking her scroll as Yuri met each progressive requirement.

Everything Lord Leroy did was designed to incite Yuri, to break his poise, but now Yuri’s fire had turned against the lord. For every needling touch he offered, for every lecherous attempt at intimacy, Yuri simply hardened to his intention and calmed, accepted.

Nothing Lord Leroy could do would take him from Lord Altin. Yuri was the only who could succeed or fail. 

Yuri was the one with the choice.

—

When his body had been tested, there was one task left, and Jean-Jacques fetched a new lord for Yuri to dress and undress. 

“Lord Giacometti,” Jean-Jacques introduced, and he was not clothed as the mediterranean lords, but in the style of the north. It was an obvious trick, for Otabek had certainly trained the slave in handling the local attire, but Otabek exuded disinterest. There was no better response to a slight than being utterly unaffected.

“A northerner, like you, my friend,” Jean-Jacques said. “And more than willing to be part of our little exam.” 

“Touched by this sweet angel?” The lord purred, brushing Yuri’s cheek. “I assure you it is my pleasure.” He did not speak in Turkish, and it took Otabek a moment to catch up.

“How is your French?” Jean-Jacques asked, recognizing Otabek’s brief confusion.

“I might remember enough,” Otabek said, his accent exceptional if his vocabulary was lacking. 

“Very good, very good,” Jean-Jacques said, making the switch to French easily. “Christophe always has the most delicious news from the north. Tell us a story while the slave works, will you, my friend?”

“Yuri,” Otabek gestured to Christophe, and Yuri nodded, approaching with a bow and beginning to remove the lord’s clothing. Christophe pet Yuri’s hair, looking all too pleased to have the beautiful slave’s attention.

“There has been quite the uproar north of your homeland, Lord Altin,” Christophe said. “The duchies are vying for power, and one duke has gone so far as to declare himself a sultan and khan - what is the word they use? A tsar.”

“Everyone wants to be Turkish,” Jean-Jacques smirked. “As if a duchy might become an empire.”

“That is not the glorious part,” Christophe said. “This tsar is an old man from an old family. His line was ruined almost twenty years ago - his son and wife killed by a rival duke, forced into exile himself. He had two grandsons that were presumed dead, but one showed up years later in the hands of raiders. He was passed between the rival duke’s lords like a trophy to shame the family’s name - and remind challengers of his power.”

Otabek felt a chill in his blood. He watched Yuri’s hands, moving across the northern costume not with confusion, but familiarity. Buttons were pressed through their slits, layers unwound, laces loosened. Christophe stepped free of his clothes, proud of his nudity, and circled once to prove the slave’s efficacy.

Sara made a mark on the scroll.

“Dress him,” Otabek whispered, mind racing, and Yuri took the undercloth and began to fasten it once more. Christophe made a playful gesture of lament.

“The tsar spent those years secretly currying favor and finally raided the duke’s castle to free his grandson. It went wrong, but a merchant guild found the grandson wandering Muscov not long after and took him in. The duke had many enemies, apparently, and the tsar had garnered sympathy and support. Word of the boy’s survival spread like wildfire.”

Otabek paled, staring at the slave completely oblivious to the conversation going on around him. Yuri studiously retied the lacings and tugged the lord’s vest into place, buttoning it and then drawing on Christophe’s coat. 

“Then, some months ago, just as the tsar is preparing to go public,” Christophe snapped his fingers, “the boy vanishes.”

“Killed by rivals, no doubt,” Jean-Jacques butted in. “They should have killed him in the first place.”

“Ah, that is what I thought as well,” Christophe said, “but there are rumors that he was captured and sent south, where no one would know his name.”

“What is his name?” Otabek asked. 

“I do not know,” Christophe said. “Only the tsar’s house: Plisetsky.”

Yuri froze, fingertips midway down Christophe’s jacket. 

“Can you imagine that?” Christophe mused, oblivious to the slave’s reaction. “The heir to a new nation - they are calling it Russia - probably sold off to some slave house.” 

“You see, my friend?” Jean-Jacques chortled, snapping his teeth like a dog: “I can always trust Christophe to bring decadent details from the north.”

Yuri stepped back with a swallow and bowed his head. “My lord,” he whispered.

Sara made a mark on her scroll. Her tongue clucked as she read through it, then held it out to the others.

“My good friend,” Sara turned to Otabek, “I believe this slave belongs to you.” She held out a deed of ownership and Otabek took it without looking, shook Jean-Jacques hand without looking. Even Christophe clapped Otabek’s back in congratulations, garnering little reaction beyond basic gratitude.

“Well, I think liquor is in order to drown out these losses,” Jean-Jacques laughed. “Shall we?” He slung his arm around Christophe’s shoulders, and Sara followed them back towards the courtyard. Jean-Jacques looked over his shoulder when he noticed Otabek wasn’t following. “Are you staying here? Going to initiate him now, you hungry beast?” Jean-Jacques smirked. “You must tell me how he is, at least, after such a remarkable steal!” And then they were gone, leaving Yuri and Otabek alone.

Yuri looked up at long last, wincing at the recognition he saw in Otabek’s eyes. 

“You are a —” Otabek started, but Yuri’s lips were there, sealing his silent. Yuri shook his head, pulling the golden collar from the slip of his dress. He pressed it into Otabek’s hands, brought those hands to his neck to clasp it.

“No,” Yuri whispered. “I am a slave.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **ACKNOWLEDGMENTS** :
> 
> Biggest thank you to **Raikov9** for their fantastic and inspirational artwork, and for [this incredible gift](https://raikovart.tumblr.com/post/165838900030/otayuri-slave-au-a-little-gift-for-my-nomanono) (OH MY GOSH)!!!! From the first time I saw slave Yuri on twitter I KNEW I wanted to write something about him. I see a ton of gorgeous art but very rarely does something compel me so strongly. You're incredible! THANK YOU!
> 
> And of course, thank you to **verity** for moral support and some word-smithing  <3 <3 <3


	7. Epilogue: On My Honor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did a roundup of my [favorite fics of 2017](https://nomanono.tumblr.com/post/169618809978/2017-top-10-fics) and remembered just how much I adored this story. 
> 
> This has been such a long time coming, hasn't it?

“Are you going to take it?” Yuri whispered. 

He stood by the wavering cloth gating Lord Altin’s room from the hall. A breeze from the open balcony made it tremble, the hem rippling over Yuri’s exposed toes. 

“We should discuss the night’s... events,” Lord Altin said. 

“Perhaps,” Yuri agreed. He brushed the toe of his sandal on the polished wood floor, then slid it between Lord Altin’s feet. His body fit easily in his lord’s shadow. “But nothing will change this. That my honor is yours to take.” He took Lord Altin’s hand, guiding it around his body, to the small of his back and the twin curves below.

He waited, heart pattering in his chest, until Lord Altin’s hand tightened around his haunch. He found himself held against Lord Altin’s muscle-taut front. 

“I cannot own a prince,” Lord Altin murmured into his ear.  

“I have been treated more kindly under your care than by anyone who knew me as a prince,” Yuri returned. His breath played over the lord’s bare chest, in the open V of his robe. 

“It does not change what you are.” Lord Altin held his ground, but his body betrayed him. His need pressed hot and blood-hard against Yuri’s lower abdomen.

“If I am a prince, it would be a great offense to refuse my gift,” Yuri’s lips brushed Lord Altin’s skin with every syllable. He looked up, switching tongues, and spoke as he’d been trained: “Please, my Lord.”

Lord Altin twitched. Yuri could sense him breaking. 

“You would not give your slave a choice,” Yuri said. He lifted his chin, still so defiant. “Do not treat me differently. You are offering me a boon, keeping me here, protecting me. In exchange...” Yuri rolled his hips, the way he’d watched Lord Altin’s in the mirror while he was rutting between Yuri’s thighs. “...you have my body, and my service.”

At the end of that roll, Lord Altin snapped. He gripped Yuri in his arms, lifted him, and carried him through the curtain.

— 

Only when his cheeks slid together, laden with oil, and he was on his hands and knees like a mare, did Yuri’s nerves rise again. 

Lord Altin stood beside the bed, shrugging out of his robe, untying the bob of hair at the back of his head. He stood in silken pants, bunched at the ankles, and nothing else. A single lamp glowed beside the bed, turning his skin to molten gold.

“Not like that,” Lord Altin said. He brushed aside the sheer canopy that sheltered the bed. Yuri looked to him for guidance, allowed himself to be rolled onto his back. 

Yuri had never seen a beast on its back before. 

“What…?” Yuri frowned in confusion. “How?” 

Lord Altin’s lips ticked up, a flicker of amusement. “This truly is your honor, then?” 

Yuri blushed and turned his head to the side, hiding in the shadow of his hair. “Yes, my Lord.”

“Then I will show you.”

He lifted Yuri’s legs, tucking his knees to his chest. Otabek’s lips glanced against the inside of Yuri’s ankle as he knelt in place behind him. Yuri felt Lord Altin’s thighs against his cheeks, widened his legs into an M so he could see what was happening between them. He saw only his own heavy need, the oddly textured sac beneath, and the flash of silk as Lord Altin disrobed. 

“Look at me,” Lord Altin commanded, sliding himself through the groove of Yuri’s cheeks the same way he’d hunched between Yuri’s thighs.

“Yes, my Lord,” Yuri said, teeth snagging on his lip. The corners of his eyes flinched as he felt the angle of pressure shift, no longer sliding up but starting to press _in_. Yuri’s breath caught as he felt his body weaken. He had no way to protect himself, no defense against the incoming impalement. 

His body resisted, vice-tight, but Lord Altin was stronger. 

Yuri let loose a cry when his lord broke through the barrier. He grabbed at Lord Altin’s shoulders, petite nails digging into the skin in surprise. The sensation felt so unnatural, so uncomfortable: the filthiest part of him opened to his keeper. 

“My lord,” Yuri whimpered.

“I am here,” Lord Altin said. His thumb traced Yuri’s eyebrow, not stopping his steady descent. 

Yuri’s body pulled tight as a bowstring, tears in the corners of his eyes. By the time he realized he was holding his breath it came out in two quick, pained gasps. Yuri thought it might hurt, but he’d never imagined it would feel so odd, so backwards. 

Lord Altin only stopped when his pelvis was flush to Yuri’s thighs, as deep as he could go. 

“There,” Lord Altin whispered. “I have your honor.” 

Yuri’s mouth opened, closed, while Lord Altin brushed the tears from his cheeks.

“It feels — ” Yuri whispered. He looked down between them, but couldn’t see beyond himself. “Are you truly… inside me?” 

“As far as I am able,” Lord Altin said. He took Yuri’s hand from his shoulder and brought it to their joining, watching Yuri’s eyes as his fingers explored the contours, the ring of their junction. Yuri’s body pulsed and twitched, the invasive sensation completely novel. His hand fell away, resting on his chest, the other still on Lord Altin’s shoulder.

When Lord Altin pulled back, Yuri flexed in embarrassment. 

“Ahh — am I unclean?” Yuri gasped.

“It only feels that way to you,” Lord Altin said, pressing inside again. Yuri’s head tipped backwards, eyes wide and staring at the canopy. “It becomes easier.”

“Ah- ahh,” Yuri gasped. He blushed at the noises he was making and turned his head away, clamping his jaw shut. His eyes followed suit.

“You can be loud,” Lord Altin said. He withdrew and thrust again, only using the last third of his length. “It pleases me.” 

This only darkened the color on Yuri’s cheeks. Never had he felt such things before: the odd, backwards movement into him, the embarrassing outward slide that Yuri’s body associated with an entirely different activity. It was far too much for him to keep up with. His hands wound up clutching around Altin’s neck, face against his shoulder as he whimpered. 

To think himself a prince seemed foolish at that moment, speared upon Lord Altin’s lance, laid helpless and bare to him, his honor at Lord Altin’s feet. 

Knights pledged their honor to their lords, dedicated their lives to service. Yuri imagined himself kneeling before Lord Altin, offering this, his honor, and the promise of his life beyond. 

As he imagined it, Lord Altin’s motions smoothed out: steady thrusts, longer thrusts, and Yuri’s body couldn’t decide whether to be embarrassed or fearful or aroused. He had no time to think, and so Yuri acted as felt right. His legs came around Lord Altin’s waist, his nails scratched at Lord Altin’s back, and his lips parted to pant: “My lord, my lord, my lord.” 

Yuri did not see Lord Altin’s face when it ended, only felt the quaking shudder, the sudden flex within him, and the slow cessation of pressure until Lord Altin withdrew. When Lord Altin lay on his back, Yuri curled half atop him. His body felt strange, brand new, tingling and awakened. 

His hand rested like a porcelain arch on Lord Altin’s bare chest, his cheek perched where pectoral met shoulder. Lord Altin’s slick length lay shriveled between his legs, the tip still beaded white. Yuri had done that, had provided that pleasure with his body. 

With his honor.

“Whether I am prince or slave,” Yuri murmured. “I am glad, gladder than I have ever been, to be yours.”


End file.
